Go Read About Me

If you're even the least bit interested in me or my work on Postcards, go check out the anthology's blog and read all the kind words Jason has to say. Of course, the odds are that you just came from that site, so going back would just send you into some sort of endless loop that'll drive you mad until you run out of your office with your pants around your ankles screaming "I love Peter Pan. I love Peter Pan." So click the link at your own risk. * * * Oh, and also note that Elk's Run comes out today. I had nothing to do with this fine book, but you should read it anyway. It's good. Plus, when you're done, you can see the advertisement at the back that plugs Postcards (which is solicited in Previews tomorrow).

Mad Maxx Meets The Collector

I'm an idiot. I've known for nearly a month that Max Berry was planning to sign at the Tattered Cover. That's plenty of time to hunt down a first edition copy of his latest book, Company, a book I wanted to buy when it first came out a year ago, but after debating and debating every time I was in the bookstore, I decided against it. And now, when he was traveling all the way from Australia to sign that very book which has just come out in paperback, I procrastinate just long enough to realize there would be absolutely no way I could get a copy in time. But I go anyway. Why not? I have his first two books, so there's no reason not to. Hell, maybe I'd even break down and buy the new paperback. It turns out Barry is funny, down to earth, and just another guy. I like him immediately. And when he reads from a novel that he hasn't even turned into his editor, well, he grows even more cool, especially when he catches a logical error in his writing as he reads, stops, and makes a quick change. Now that was awesome. As I wait in line to shake his hand and get his signature, I overhear him talking to a few others as he signs their books. So far, everyone is having him sign a little note to their girlfriends, or to their mom, or to co-workers. All the while, I'm just looking to get his autograph since the collector in me doesn't want an inscription anywhere near my pristine copies. Of course, it's not that big a deal. I've been in that situation hundred of times. The anticipation is worse then the actual event, so I knew I could handle being the only collector in the house. Well, until the guy in front of me says, "Oh, I have to get an inscription. If I'm meeting an author I like and getting a book signed, what's the point in not getting an inscription?" Barry, with his head down to concentrate on whatever witty words he was writing mumbles something about collectors and bastards and making money. Oh no. Did he really say all collectors were bastards? Probably not. Did his snide comment mean he hated anyone who would ask for "just" a signature? I doubt it. But that's what I hear and feel just the same. A war immediately erupts in my mind and soul as I decide to have him write whatever he wants on all three books, only to change my mind and stick to my guns and get just the signature. In the final 45 seconds of my wait, I change my mind back and forth 38 times. When it's my turn, I gently hand him my two pristine first editions and a copy of his new paperback. "Just your signature, please," I say softly. "Sorry." He smiles and says, "It's okay. That's the only way they'll be worth money, right?" I want to tell him to feel free to write what he felt like writing. I want to tell him that these weren't for me. I want to tell him that yes, I was a collector, but that I had no control over this need to have him sign only his signature. I want to tell him it was a disease and that I'd seek medical attention as soon as I got home. Instead I say, "I don't collect for money." Of course, by then, his head is bent and he can't hear my self-conscious whimper. "Do you want me to date it, too?" He asks. No. No. Just the signature, man. That's what I want to say. Instead, I say, "Sure, whatever." After the deed is done, the collector in me backs off and I ask him about his relationship with his editor. Turns out that he really trusts his editor and truly appreciates the work he does on his novels. For me, as an editor who wants to break away from his corporate chains, that was a refreshing thing for me to hear. To some degree, we were talking on the same level. Not writer to fan, but peer to peer. Then, in a burst of unplanned excitement, I ask, "What happened to the other x?" His first novel was penned by a Maxx Barry, whereas all subsequent work was done by Maxx Berry. I immediately see my mistake just by looking in his eyes as he turns to me and says, "Oh, well, in the book..." D'oh! Of course. Had I actually read his book, I would've known that the story was about marketing, and how the characters would come up with silly ways to market themselves, such as adding an extra letter to their name to look cool and help sell themselves. Now I not only wanted just his signature for my collectible book, I hadn't even read his book in the first place to know the inside joke. God, what an idiot! I shake his hand, thank him for coming all the way to America and to the small city of Denver, and then I walk upstairs, where I realize that I would never live with myself for having only a paperback version of his latest book, so I actually set the recently signed copy down on top of a stack of others. As I drive home, I hope he doesn't go upstairs to sign the rest of the copies only to find a signed and dated copy of his book already sitting there, a sign that a true collecting bastard had been here.

Back to Work

I've really been slacking off on my projects the last couple of weeks, what with two weekends spent in the mountains. So today I'm going to be glued to my desk chair, reacquainting myself with the schedule I created for the anthology I'm putting together. It's time to get more confirmations on who will be in the book. Looks to be a busy, yet rewarding, day for me. Someone bring me a Snickers.